Chapter 7
A LITTLE REPARTEE
LANEY
“Dad, it’s Laney. Again. Please call me back. I’m done with this month’s bookkeeping, and we really need to talk about those plans I sent you. I just don’t know how the shop is going to remain solvent otherwise, and—”
I stopped talking with a heavy sigh. Why was I even bothering? Dad didn’t seem to check his voicemail much these days, as evidenced by the three messages he’d ignored since I’d returned from Vegas last week. I had, however, received several texts featuring weather reports and golf updates.
“Just call me back, all right? Love you.”
I ended the call. Predictably, the screen lit up almost immediately with an incoming text.
Dad
Hey, Laneybug. Out on the course right now, but I’ll call you later. Four under par today!
I stared until the screen went dark, as if that might somehow elicit the involvement I imagined instead. Things like:
Dad
Hiya hon. Don’t worry, I’m parking the car. Calling you back now.
Dad
I’m sorry I missed you again, but my lawyer is sending over full power of attorney now. I trust you.
Dad
Heya kiddo. I’m sorry I’ve been MIA. I’ll go back to being the father you remember starting now.
Of course, none of these texts appeared. Nothing at all, just like yesterday, and the day before that, and pretty much every day for the past year. I wasn’t sure how it happened, but somehow, in losing one parent, I’d lost them both.
“Got it,” I muttered.
I set the phone on my desk and went back to staring at the ledger for Meráki to try to figure out where in God’s name I was going to make cuts this month. I had one more hour before I had to leave for Megan’s rehearsal dinner, and I wasn’t going to get stuck doing this over the wedding weekend.
Then again, maybe it was time to face the truth.
Megan was right. Meráki was failing. It wasn’t a quick death, but a slow bleed.
Mom had been smart enough to have enough savings to staunch the trickle of debt for at least another year while I figured out what to do.
But without her energy and the creative solutions she seemed to summon from thin air, the reality was that Seattleites no longer enjoyed locally sourced fashion enough to keep Meráki in business.
Megan had asked me more than once why I needed to sacrifice my own goals for this business. It was my mom’s passion, not mine.
How could I explain that was the point?
My mother was gone. Her warmth, her smile, her no-nonsense counsel.
Dad had never been a paragon of emotional communication, so while he had been the provider of the family, she had been its heart.
She’d encouraged me through grad school.
Supported me through heartbreaks. Given me the knowledge that at least in one small corner of the world, I was always enough to someone.
So what if sustainably sourced leatherworks and chunky knitwear weren’t my passions? It was all I had left of her. I couldn’t let her go.
Unfortunately, it was looking more and more like that wasn’t going to be my decision.
I’d done everything I could to save the place, including things like reducing staff down to one (me) and finally cutting back “unnecessary” things like medical benefits (even with a heart that performed the occasional tap-dancing routine).
Now, to avoid bankruptcy, I was either going to have to leverage more assets to keep the shop afloat or sell it altogether—and both decisions required Dad’s signature. Or at least some basic communication.
As if summoned by just the thought of my heart, another call lit up my phone. One I’d been avoiding for a while.
“Just rip it off, you coward,” I told myself before answering the call. “Hi, this is Laney.”
“Hi, Laney, this is Dr. Palmer from the UW Heart Institute.”
I sat up straight in my desk chair. “Dr. Palmer, hello. I—usually it’s your PA who calls.”
There was a low hum of assent from the doctor I’d been seeing for the past few months, since my previous cardiologist had left the institute. Dr. Palmer was young, new, and up to date on all the latest techniques. He was also like a dog with a bone about one issue in particular.
“Yes, well, considering we didn’t hear back from you last week, I thought I would call myself this time to check on your decision about the ablation. As I said at your last appointment, time is really of the essence here, and—”
“I know,” I blurted out. “But I’ve been getting along all right with meds. Can’t I just do that longer until things pick up?”
“I’m sorry, Laney. But I can’t in good faith recommend that as your provider.
Per our discussion, your arrhythmic episodes are occurring more frequently and with more intensity.
Frankly, I would have recommended the procedure when you were first diagnosed, and I don’t understand how you’ve gone this long without it. ”
Because I’m terrified, I thought, staring up at the ceiling and trying not to cry, even though I knew the doctor couldn’t see me. Because I watched the person I love most in the world get sicker and sicker and sicker in a hospital and never get better.
Because people who go into those places don’t come out of them.
My last doctor had been frustrated with my phobia, but he’d understood it.
After all, I’d only been diagnosed with WPW when I was in high school—right before Mom had gotten sick.
It was treatable with medication and breathing exercises, but only for the short term, he’d warned me.
As soon as my mom was better, I’d need the surgery.
Except she hadn’t gotten better.
And so, I’d never gotten the surgery.
And now I just… couldn’t.
“I really can’t do it right now,” I said, bracing myself for the argument I knew was coming.
“Laney, I really can’t—”
“I don’t have good insurance anymore,” I blurted out.
“I had to let it—it doesn’t matter. The point is that after last month, I had to reduce my coverage to catastrophic only.
I’ll be paying for our appointments and all my meds out of pocket until I’m able to get my business back on its feet, but until then, I won’t be covered for any kind of procedures until I experience some kind of, well, catastrophe, that lands me in the hospital. ”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “I see.”
“I know it’s not ideal,” I went on. “But it’s what I have to do right now. I hope you understand, but I need to manage this for just a bit longer.”
I thought I heard a long sigh. Dr. Palmer was passionate about his patients, but he was good at hiding it when he needed to.
“Laney, why don’t you come in next week to discuss the matter further,” he said. “There may be programs at the Institute that can help you afford this.”
“Oh no, really, I—”
“I insist,” he said gently. “I won’t charge you for the appointment. But before I’m willing to write any more prescriptions or develop another treatment plan, it’s important that we have an extended conversation about the risks and go over all your options. Agreed?”
I sighed. There was no getting out of this. “All right. Agreed. Thanks, Dr. Palmer.”
“I have Tuesday at six-thirty available after my regular clinic hours are finished. Does that work for you?”
“Sure. I’ll meet you there.”
I ended the call and rubbed my face with my hands. A handsome face with a chiseled jaw, once-broken nose, and crooked smile appeared, as they did whenever I had closed my eyes recently. Right along with that curl begging to be tugged over his forehead.
Ronan and I hadn’t even talked once over the last week, only occasionally trading a text here and there. I assumed it was because waking up married to a nobody was fundamentally awkward, and also that it would probably take more than a few days for his lawyers to get the annulment squared away.
I wasn’t in a hurry. Every time I thought about him, my heart seemed to squeeze a little. Not in a way that was unpleasant, but it was certainly disconcerting.
The world (or at least my phone) seemed to be in tune with my state of mind, because once again, the screen lit up with the very subject of my thoughts.
Ronan
How’s my wonderful wife doing this fine Friday evening?
He liked calling me his wife. He also liked alliteration and either had a big vocabulary or a good thesaurus.
So far, I’d been textually addressed as “my beloved bride”, “my superlative spouse”, and “my marvelous missus,” just to name a few.
My favorite was “resplendent rib” purely for the allusion, but I’d never give him the satisfaction.
Because, despite the fact that nothing he ever said was anything short of complimentary, I couldn’t tell if I was in on whatever joke he was making or somehow the butt of it.
Was Ronan flirting? Or trying to get me to flirt just to toss me aside?
Was he trying to put me at ease or make me even more uneasy?
Maybe the uncertainty was the point.
Fine. You?
Ronan
Loquacious as always. Hasn’t anyone ever told you to think before you speak, sweetheart?
I rolled my eyes. He liked to tease too, mostly about my buttoned-up personality. It was as if he’d made it his personal mission to bring back Not Laney Fisher. Probably because he knew if he hadn’t met her, he never would have liked her—or kissed her or married her—otherwise.
The thought stung. Maybe that’s why I dug in and replied with an especially prickly text.
Has anyone ever told you that we should be divorced by now? Can’t your billions get one little annulment in order?
Maybe it was a little unfair. He had assured me in Vegas that he would have it taken care of, and I believed him. Ronan Black had no more reason to stay married to an absolute nobody on the other side of the country than I had to stay married to him, and lawyers take time, right?
Considering I barely had enough to pay the electricity bill this month, I had no recourse but to let him figure it out.